


Competition

by Aenorno



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-02 01:59:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13308009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aenorno/pseuds/Aenorno
Summary: A drunk Lavellan pesters Solas to train with her.





	Competition

“Ridiculous.”

“Harsh.”

“Ludicrous.”

“Better, but still hurtful.”

“My sincerest apologies.”

I nudged him, taking another swig of my beer. “C’mon.”

“No.”

I hummed, scrunching my face into a thoughtful scowl. “Know what I think?”

“It doesn’t appear you are at the moment.”

“I think you’re scared!” I declared to my staff, “The all knowing Solas! Although, I suppose I can’t blame you. She is a beauty.” I stroked my staff fondly.

Solas didn’t spare me a glance, his eyes fixated on the book in front of him. “You’re drunk. Why would I spar with you while you are drunk?”

I leaned in close, placing a hand on his shoulder for balance. “You have my permission. If you kill me, Cassandra won’t mind,” I stage-whispered. 

“I don’t make a habit of fighting the inebriated, Lavellan,” Solas repeated patiently, but I barely caught his eyes, sizing me up and glinting with mischief. “And certainly not drunk people who fight with such poorly enchanted sticks,” he added innocently.

I placed a hand over my heart. “Why, Solas! You know very well I don’t get drunk easily!” I sipped from my mug, then waved it in his face. “This is weak! Try handcrafted Dalish alcohol, then come talk to me!“

Cabot shot me a dirty look, but I continued. Solas cleared his throat delicately.

I pressed ahead, determined to defend my honor. “What is far more offensive is the notion I fight with a poorly enchanted stick! My staff was crafted with iron bark and enchanted by the Keeper- and I was trained specifically for dealing with smug hedge mages and their...” I fumbled for something strong enough. Solas’s mouth twitched. “Weak staffs!” I decided, then shot an apologetic glance at the staff resting against the wall. “No offense, Chuckles.”

“It’s a staff,” he informed me flatly.

“And?”

“And it’s an inanimate object. You don’t name inanimate objects.”

I gave a dramatic wave of my hand. “Well, the public has already spoken! Sorry, hahren, but it’s Chuckles!” I patted Chuckles. “He won’t even say your name.”

Solas opened his mouth, perhaps to correct me on who exactly was nicknamed Chuckles, but thought better of it.

“Two types of people name their swords- pretentious heroes and foolish pretenders.”

I winked. “Which am I?”

“A pretentious hero,” he responded, the corners of his mouth twitching up.

“Better a pretentious hero than a scaredy shit.”

“Excuse me?”

I crossed my arms. “You heard me.”

Solas heaved a great sigh, finally closing his book and turning to face me fully. “Da’len, do you know why I train?”

“To get better.”

“And how do you get better?”

I rolled my eyes. “Enlighten me.”

“You fight people better than you,” he explained patiently.

“So?”

“So how can I improve by fighting you?” he asked innocently.

My mouth hung open, my wit dulled by the shem swill. He smirked, rose from the bar, and turned towards the exit.


End file.
